


Women of Thedas

by Ammocharis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Study, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Disciples of Andraste (Dragon Age), Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29736009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammocharis/pseuds/Ammocharis
Summary: A collection of short stories focused on the lives of women from the annals of Thedosian history.Chapter 1: Brona of the Ciriane - how she guarded her daughter even after her deathChapter 2: Marethari Talas, First of Clan Sabrae - how she indebted herself to Asha'bellanar to protect her people
Relationships: Brona&Andraste (Dragon Age)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 2





	1. Dreams of Red

Brona touched her belly. It was growing larger and rounder with each passing day. Her daughter would be born soon. She knew that she was going to give birth to a girl. Her name would be  _ Andraste _ . Elderath looked at his wife with great concern. It must have been the expression in her eyes as she stroked her stomach up and down that betrayed her thoughts. Brona could not forget the dream that came upon her two nights before. In the echoes from the Land of Dreams, she saw a fire that consumed her newborn child. The dream was so vivid that she could still feel the flames that licked her skin as she tried to save her baby. Each time she made an attempt to take her dear child in her arms, still covered in the blood of her womb, the blazing glow blinded her, the smoke grabbed her by the throat, and Andraste slipped out of her hands. Once the fire completely devoured the tiny body of her daughter, Brona entered the pyre and let it consume her as well. 

Elderath’s wife shook her head to banish the memory and smiled at her husband, reassuring him that nothing was wrong. Their joined tribes of Ciriane and Alamarri were growing stronger. Their warriors recently conquered more lands on the eastern coast. The darkness that plagued the world for the past three hundred winters had truly ended this time, Brona believed it with all her heart. Just after the new year began, they received news from the north. The mad dragon had been slain in the Silent Plains. Elderath welcomed back a group of warriors who journeyed across the Waking Sea to gain honour and glory in battles against the spawn. To Brona’s displeasure, Itherre, the alchemy advisor who offered to accompany the brave fighters, returned without a single scratch on her skin. She was greeted by chieftain Elderath with great enthusiasm, so great that her belly became swollen too. Brona banished that thought as well. Children born from such dalliances were of no importance when the rightful wife had the ability to provide heirs. What mattered was that now, almost eight moons later, the darkness did not return, and her daughter would be born in a bright world that she deserved.

Brona allowed the servant girl to fill her bowl with food, even though she knew she wouldn’t touch any of it.

_ ~Two weeks later _

The naming ceremony was held ten days after her daughter was born. The sun was shining bright, its light not obstructed by clouds for even one short breath. The time of darkness had truly passed and would never return. Lady of the Skies was showering their tribes with blessings once again. From dawn till dusk, everyone celebrated the heir of the chieftain and his fair wife and wished them seven more children to come.

The child was named Andraste, for she would be invincible. Unconquerable. Indestructible. Elderath and Brona’s child, first of the line that was destined to rule all lands south of Minanter River, perhaps the whole Thedas one day. Brona still remembered the visions of red that haunted her until the pregnancy was over. She didn’t mention that the nightmares happened more than once, and now that they ceased, she tried her best to bury them in the depths of her mind, never to resurface again.

After all the necessary rituals had been completed, the augur placed Andraste in Brona’s arms. She kissed her daughter on the forehead and tied a blue ribbon around her tiny wrist, to attract only gentle spirits to her and ward off all that was evil and corrupted.

Another naming ceremony took place only two days later, but the celebrations weren’t as exuberant.

_ ~Three years later _

Brona glanced at her beloved child, Andraste, who was playing with that wench’s daughter. The alchemist woman was absent from the hall, as she went away to treat Elderath’s wound, but Brona knew that it wasn’t the only matter that the concubine has taken care of. She already gave her husband a child, and her belly could start to swell with another cursed fruit any moment, while Brona was unable to grow Elderath’s seed in her womb. Itherre must have bewitched the chieftain somehow. She did admit to studying magicks from all corners of the world, including the blighted sorcery of the Old Gods. Her sly tongue and foul craft was the source of Elderath’s decision to give her a place in his great hall. It was the only reason he allowed Halliserre to be counted in his bloodline, though he should’ve disavowed any ties to the runt on the grounds of a suspicious pregnancy length. Itherre managed to convince the Elderath that the birth was premature, but Brona knew better. That wench got knocked up by one of the warriors while she remained in the north, and then she slipped into the chieftains bed as soon as she had the chance.

_ Still, it’s just a misshapen runt, _ Brona thought with a mix of disgust and satisfaction, looking at a scar above Halliserre’s mouth, the reminder of the harelip she was born with. Itherre used her skills to heal the worst of the deformity, but she wasn’t able to completely erase it.  _ You reap what you sow.  _ Elderath would be even more enamoured with his advisor if she gave him a strong son in his image, like many other men hoped. In the current situation, there was still a good chance that Itherre could be removed from the chieftain’s side, perhaps even banished from the tribe together with her daughter.  _ Yes, that would be for the best,  _ Brona decided. She already had an idea, something to help Fate take the right course.

_ ~Eight years later _

Halliserre and Andraste remained inseparable, despite Brona’s efforts to expel that bastard along with her wicked mother. Elderath agreed that Itherre’s treachery deserved punishment, though he refused to listen to his rightful wife when she said that her spawn, despite being so young, was as rotten as her mother.

Still, the alchemist was gone, and she never bore Elderath another child. Brona slowly got used to the thought that Haliserre was there to stay. Still, she would’ve preferred if Andraste's closest friend was Ealisay, her cousin’s second child, or even Cerys, the daughter of her handmaiden. Anyone but the witch’s brat. Brona was very pleased whenever Andraste would sing with Ealisay, her voice always so sweet, moving her mother’s heart with the beauty of her voice. When she was humming the melody of the chant about a brave little ptarmigan, Brona’s eyes never failed to fill with tears.

Hearing that melody in her mind, Brona observed as Halliserre braided Andraste’s hair. The girl pinned up her  _ half-sister’s  _ golden locks so that they would resemble a band of valuable metal, the mark of a ruler of a great tribe. When the light shone at a certain angle, the strands of hair appeared more copper. No matter the circumstances, her daughter was the most precious girl around.

“Andraste, you’re so pretty. How can you say you don’t want a husband?” Halliserre asked in a sweet, innocent voice. Others might have been fooled by her pleasantries, but Brona never believed her little tricks, which she surely had sucked with her mother’s milk.

The beautiful girl shrugged with indifference and looked at the ancestral blade of her mother’s line. She was ready to begin her training in swordsmanship, but she would never fight on the frontlines. She would never lead a charge against their enemies. Brona knew what her daughter was thinking, oh, she knew it very well. “ _ What is the point of training then.”  _ Brona remembered her own bitter thoughts when she was told of her role in the tribe.  _ “You can learn the way of Hakkon, walk the path of steel and ice for a time, but you are to be a wife and a mother first, and raise strong leaders to rule the alliance. Daughters of warriors and daughters of chieftains have different fates awaiting them.” _

Her destiny was to remain by the gentle fire of the hearth, not walk through the raging flames of the battlefield. For Brona, it was a blessing, but for her youthful, vibrant daughter, it seemed like a tight leash.

In time, she would come to understand her role and cherish it.

_ ~Three years later _

Brona tightly clutched her daughter to her breast as the girl cried uncontrollably, her panicked words barely recognizable.

“D-dead,” Andraste whispered once she calmed down enough to stop her voice from shaking.

“Who?” Brona asked, wiping her daughter’s face with her sleeve. Her golden hair was knotted and smelled of smoke, as did her clothes.

“Halliserre,” Andraste said and burst into tears again. Soon, her cries turned into a coughing fit.

“Where is she?” one of the servants inquired when the chieftain’s heir finally caught her breath. He tried to touch Andraste’s shoulder but her mother smacked his wrist and yelled at him to get out. The sudden movement disarranged Andraste’s skirts, revealing the skin, and Brona noticed a burn on her daughter’s ankle.

“Leave us,” she told the rest of her retinue, her voice cold as the late-night air. “Look for the girl if you want, but don’t disturb us anymore.”

Brona cradled her baby in her arms, heart close to heart, as it was when Andraste was still slumbering in her womb. They rocked back and forth together, a horrifying thought echoing in Brona’s mind as she was stroking her daughter’s hair, inhaling the bitter smell of soot. 

_ Fire. _

She could’ve lost her child to a fire.

_ ~Four years later _

Her beautiful daughter, now sixteen-year-old woman, was about to marry a powerful warlord of the Avvar. Brona watched the ceremony with pride, though her pride mixed with fear. The healers were uncertain if Andraste would be able to carry children. She was on the verge of death for so long after Halliserre’s untimely departure to the Lady’s domain that Brona began to worry. A sickness had sprouted in Andraste’s lungs and it couldn’t be weeded out. She was afraid her child would meet her cursed half-sister on the other side of the Veil. Thank gods, the efforts of many healers tethered her back to life. Still, Andraste was never the same.

Brona blinked a few times, tears welling in her eyes, and she banished the black thoughts far, far away.

_ ~One year later _

Andraste began saying that she met the Maker of the world. At first, Brona disregarded her daughter’s words, ascribing them to the illness that left her so frail, both in the body and the mind. Andraste was persistent though, and when she started praising this Maker who revealed himself to her, singing melodies that inspired everyone who heard them, Brona was moved too. She listened to her daughter teaching their tribe of what she learned from the Creator, and she memorized the words forming on her lips to reach the world, like graceful swans taking off from a crystal clear lake to ascend to the sky.

“I will follow you anywhere you lead, my daughter.”

Andraste smiled, gentle and sweet. The song was carried by Ealisay and other girls for a moment. When her daughter’s golden voice rejoined the chant, it looked as if the chamber became illuminated with an otherworldly light. Brona did not hesitate to add her voice to the choir, though she couldn’t let out a sound louder than a whisper, prevented by a sudden tightness in her throat. 

_ ~Two years later _

A miracle happened and Andraste was with a child. Maferath already had two sons from his concubine Gilivhan, whose belly was ripe with another bastard. Brona watched the dark-haired woman with jealousy, but the feeling vanished without a trace as soon as her daughter told her that she was expecting a baby.

“It will be a girl, mother, I’m sure,” Andraste whispered into Brona’s ear, hugging her tightly.

“The Maker’s blessing,” Brona agreed and kissed her daughter on both cheeks.

_ ~Five years later _

Brona watched her husband’s unmoving body and couldn’t understand what she was seeing. Their great hall was burning and screams overcame the night’s silence. Someone told her that her daughter had been kidnapped when Tevinter raiders attacked during the night. Everyone knew that those northern bastards took men and women from the tribe to sell as slaves.

“Your grandchildren are safe, Mother Brona,” one of the servants informed her, but the woman ignored him. She grabbed the nearest blade and stood up. She had to find her beloved child, her one and only daughter. Save her baby from the fire, or else they would both die.

Someone stopped her and forcibly removed the shortsword from her clutches. She couldn’t recognize that person at first. The tears finally washed the soot out of her eyes and she regained her vision. It was her daughter’s husband, Maferath. After Elderath’s death, he was in charge of their joined tribes, Brona realized. The man led her to safety with Ebris and Vivial and told her to watch over the girls. On the other side of the tent, behind the curtain, a handmaiden was caring for Isorath, Evrion and Verald. Their mother Gilivhan was dead, though that loss wouldn’t bring any more tears to Brona’s eyes.

She glanced at her granddaughters who cried for their mother. They were her bone and blood and yet they looked nothing like her sweet Andraste. They took after their father instead. Brona tried to lull her grandchildren back into sleep but failed utterly. She couldn’t calm down herself, how was she supposed to hush a weeping baby, let alone two of them? She lowered her head and began praying to the Maker.

_ ~One year later _

Maferath managed to negotiate Andraste’s release. Brona was relieved to see her daughter alive and back home, but when she heard what Andraste had planned for the future, she began cursing her fate. Sweet Andraste, her beloved daughter, wanted to free all people from Tevinter’s slavery, and she couldn’t be convinced to abandon her ideas. She said that the Maker wanted His children to be free and that it was her duty to fulfill His wishes.

“I will follow you everywhere you go, daughter of my heart,” Brona said with bitter tears streaming down her cheeks.

And she did.

She watched many battles fought on barren fields. She saw her ancestral sword change owners when Andraste gifted it to Shartan, the elf and former slave to the same master as her daughter. She listened to the Chant that her daughter sang to the Maker. She witnessed more and more people join the Invincible Andraste’s crusade against Tevinter.

Brona prayed the new prayers and quickly forgot the old ones.

_ ~Ten years later _

Brona heard about her daughter’s death on a pyre and her heart turned into stone at that moment. The adversity of time stopped her from following Andraste into the flames. When the news reached her, the fire had long been extinguished, so instead, Brona did everything to commemorate her daughter’s memory.

She followed Havard’s trail from the north, back to the lands of the alliance. He was raised in the Frostbacks, in the same tribe as Maferath, so he suggested that the Disciples settle on a mountainside where only the most devoted followers of Andraste could reach her. The rock already bore some ancient markings but they could cover up the old mosaics and carve out the new chambers to house all who wished to serve as guardians to the Maker’s bride. Her daughter would rest close to the sun, by the Maker’s throne. No more fitting a tomb than this could they find. Up high, lying on the bones of the world stretching towards the sky's embrace. Veiled in white, like a bride greeting her groom.

_ ~Twenty-four years later _

She did not forget about the fire, and the flames did not forget about Brona.

The mother of the dead daughter put a flawless black pearl between her lips. She hadn’t had any food in her mouth for days, and she would only take a sip of water when thirst became unbearable. Silently, she said the final prayer and began the rite. Her fate was to guard her daughter’s ashes even after her last breath.

She would protect her daughter in death because she could not protect her in life.

_ ~Over a thousand years later _

"A dream came upon me as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life and of her betrayal and death. I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save," said the Ash Wraith that took the form of a Ciriane woman. Her face was sculpted by centuries of pain. "Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought's strange sisters dwell in night, are swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?", the spectral figure asked, her voice as soft as if she was singing a lullaby.

“Dreams,” the Warden replied, and the Wraith shed a single tear.


	2. Chapter 2

The aravels’ wheels rocked on the uneven path downhill. The first wagon carried the injured who required closer care. The second was reserved for less serious cases. Some sounds of hurt and discomfort spread around the caravan, but most of the Dalish who completed their vallaslin were able to keep quiet through the pain. 

The passengers of the next aravel, all five of them, remained completely silent. If they had any complaints, they couldn’t be heard from the Beyond. The clan lost eight more members, though their journey didn’t receive a proper farewell. The choice was to abandon them or to join their numbers.

The remaining aravels transported the small children and the elders, together with their hastily collected belongings. Pots, blankets, spare clothes, and other gear had been wedged into every possible space. The people who still had strength marched beside their halla brothers and sisters to lessen the burden and quicken the pace.

The Sabrae Clan was in shambles.

Marethari leaned over the Keeper and reinspected his wounds. The bleeding stopped but his heartbeat was dangerously slow. The First amplified the healing spell she had cast, though the effort seemed futile. She had done everything she could to save him. She repaired as much as possible with her magic, applied the proper salves, gave him the strongest potions, changed the bandages. Even though all steps had been taken, her mentor still balanced between life and death. He took a sharp inhale and coughed up some fresh blood.  _ May the Creators protect you. _

The clan managed to escape… most of them, at least. However, the threat was out there. They shouldn’t be forced to leave the bodies of their loved ones behind. They shouldn’t be running away like thieves in the night.  _ We are the last elvhen. _

_ Never again shall we submit. _

Marethari jumped off the aravel. She took her staff and walked over to another wagon where the food rations had been stored. Her fellow clansmen looked at her with tired, hollow eyes. She exchanged condolences and started filling her bag with pieces of dried meat and flatbread. She also grabbed a packet of herbs, as well as the last three vials of lyrium that somehow survived the chaos.

Someone approached her from behind and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Orian asked bluntly. Up until this morning, there was a simple, clearly defined connection between them. ‘My brother’s wife’, Orian could describe her. ‘My husband’s brother’, Marethari could call him. Now, they had to add just one, short word. It should roll easily off the tongue, yet in reality, it would get stuck in one’s throat.

“There’s something I need to do that requires me to take another route,” the mage replied in a quiet voice. She wouldn’t want to wake up anyone, they all had little to no sleep this night, and another long day only just began. “Follow the river downstream, as it was planned. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” she assured Orian.

The craftsman eyed her up and down, his gaze as sharp as the arrowheads he made. When his eyes rested on her face again, the stark expression vanished.

“Are you sure you need to do that, Marethari? With the Keeper so badly wounded, and Sarel… I mean… You’re the only one that can lead us now. What’s so important that you have to leave  _ now _ ?” Orian’s words ringed with concern.

“I intend to speak with asha’bellanar,” Marethari admitted after a pregnant pause.

“Asha’bellanar?” the man repeated as a deep frown formed on his forehead. “I think… I think if Sarel were here, he would… tell you not to go.”

_ He’s not here. _

“Sarel was Second to the Keeper,” Marethari said in a cold voice. “Whatever you think my husband would suggest, in matters of magic, my insight weighs more.”

“Does Irelen know?” Orian glanced towards the aravel where the Keeper was fighting for his life.

“Yes,” Marethari replied tersely. She did reveal her intentions to the Keeper, difficult as it was when he constantly slipped in and out of consciousness. “I have to go.”

He didn’t try to stop her. He just looked at her with those leaf-green eyes, the same colour and shape as his brother’s.

* * *

Marethari entered the evergreen forest and began the search for the altar of asha’bellanar. She tried to ignore the concerns voiced by Orian and the warnings uttered by the Keeper in a breathless voice. Still, she could hear them both as if they walked beside her. The Keeper would urge her to think of the consequences again. Irelen was always a careful man. He’d been the one to suggest setting camp in these highlands, where the Chantry’s influence was weak and the clan could avoid the Templars more easily. Some humans still lived there, but no place on the continent remained free of them after the ages of conquest, except maybe for the depths of the grand Arlathan forest.

Around noon, Marethari paused for a meal. She ate quickly, not really paying attention to the taste. As soon as she took the last bite of the ration she packed for the day, she resumed the walk.

Despite his knowledge and caution, one of Irelen’s lungs collapsed when the human arrow pierced his chest. His Second was killed on the spot. Marethari didn’t even see the body. That day, she stayed in the camp, while Irelen and Sarel ventured out to look for the seed pods of crystal grace. They were accompanied by a hunting party. The signs of winter were visible, plain as day, so the clan made preparations. The incoming disaster didn’t announce itself as clearly, or maybe they were blind to the omens.

_ Why were you attacked?  _ Marethari asked the Keeper, but he wasn’t able to reply. None of the hunters who survived the fight could offer her an explanation. They said they had split into two groups. When they heard the screams of the other unit, they leapt ahead, only to witness the slaughter underway. Perhaps the chance to uncover the reason perished together with the eight men and women who now lay on the blood-soaked hill, denied the guidance of Falon’Din.

Marethari continued to trudge through the seldom travelled forest. She was forced to climb over fallen trees that were wider than she was tall. Her cheek had been grazed by a branch she didn’t notice in time. She almost dropped the ring she received from the Keeper into a stream as she jumped over it. Yet she pressed on.

The deeper she went into the woods, the quieter it became. Not only the animals seemed to have disappeared, but even the wind died down. The warning words in her head didn’t ring as loudly anymore. By the time she reached the altar, the sun began to set. She was surrounded by silence and shadows.

Marethari stopped in front of the carved slab of granite. It was too late to turn back at this point. She had to follow through and summon asha’bellanar, lest all of this was for nothing.

She grasped her staff in both hands and bent her knees.

“We few who travel far, call to me and I will come. Without mercy, without fear. Cry havoc in the moonlight, let the fire of vengeance burn. The cause is clear,” Marethari recited the invocation as she gathered her magic and poured it into the statue at the center of the altar. It resembled a female form with wings growing out of her back, as if she was turned to stone amidst a transformation. The crystals inlaid in her eyes began glowing. The woman of many years must’ve heard Marethari’s call. Would she answer?

In a cloud of black smoke, she materialized right next to the altar. 

Her body might have looked like that of a regular old human, but she was much more than she appeared. The Keeper, though reluctant, did share what he had learned about asha’bellanar from his own mentor, starting with the title -  _ asha’bellanar _ \- and the name -  _ Flemeth _ . Marethari memorized those lessons well. She remembered how she sat beside Sarel and listened to the stories about the woman who was called “the Witch of the Wilds” by humans. She was said to bestow favours upon those who were wronged. Whose side would she take this time?

“Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar,” Marethari said the proper greeting, trying to keep her voice loud and clear. Somehow, she succeeded.

“How long do you plan to kneel before me?” the woman asked in a raspy voice. Her bright golden eyes gleamed in the altar lights.

“As long as it’s needed.” 

“Then stand up. I have no use for bruised knees.”

Marethari followed the order, or suggestion - it was hard to tell from the tone of asha’bellanar’s voice.

“Speak now. What does one of the People seek in such a remote part of the mighty Frostbacks?” The woman circled the clearing with a wide gesture. The light of the altar illuminated the forest, though it also cast a strange shadow. The dark shapes spilled onto the grass, making it seem as if the winged statue was moving.

“I am Marethari Talas, First of Clan Sabrae.” The mage bowed her head, keeping her gaze glued to the ground. “In the spring, we set up our aravels in the hills west of here. Through the hunting season, we lived in peace, yet as soon as the first signs of winter arrived, the humans who dwelled nearby attacked my people. More than a dozen were killed by those barbarians. We had to flee. Our Keeper is on the brink of death.”

“Interesting how swiftly the seasons change when you avert your eyes. Like a pot of boiling milk, don’t you think?” The old woman chuckled. “At least a boiling pot seldom kills anyone.”

Marethari blinked, confused by the response. She raised her eyes and saw how the smiling wrinkles disappear from the corners of Flemeth’s mouth. “It.. it wasn’t the change of season that caused my people to die.”

“Are you sure?” The human in front of her raised an eyebrow.

“It was those Avvar savages!” Marethari shouted before she remembered who she was speaking to. She hunched in embarrassment. “Forgive me, Asha’bellanar, for my impatience. I didn’t intend to raise my voice.”

The old woman waved her hand dismissively. “Scream if you must, we all do at some point. Some scream in silence. Those rarely reach out to me. So what is it that you want?”

Marethari felt the tightness in her chest increase. It was like a rock tied to her heart. She might provoke the ire of  _ asha’bellanar _ with her question, but she had to ask it, even if the chances to have her request granted were slim.

“Could you bring back my husband?” she whispered.

“You knew the answer to that long before you ever thought of coming to me,” asha’bellanar replied. For the first time, her words sounded… kind, even gentle. That was the voice of a woman who understood how it is to lose someone and refuse to accept it.

Marethari lowered her head and pressed her palm against her breastbone. The amulet hidden underneath her shirt seemed as heavy as the weight attached to her heart.

_ Sarel is gone,  _ she thought,  _ and no force will revive him. But his killers are out there, lying in wait. _

Asha’bellanar observed Marethari with keen eyes. She didn’t encourage her to speak, but it was clear that she expected the elf to make another plea.

“My Keeper had told me you have aided the People in times of need,” Marethari said after the pause. She straightened her back and poured her remaining strength into her voice. “My clan might still be in danger from the barbarians who attacked us. If you could remove the threat, I’m ready to indebt myself to you.”

“You offer a favour from a future Keeper?” Flemeth’s lips curved into a smile. “In exchange for your clan’s safety… But what if your people are already safe?”

“We thought we had peace.” Marethari shook her head. “But those savages are unpredictable. Even if they are not pursuing us right now, who knows what they might decide tomorrow. Who can guess what they’ll do the next time a Dalish clan chooses to set their camp in the Frostbacks. A dog who bit someone once will bite again,” the mage said decidedly.

“Ah, it’s always so curious to see how the paths diverge,” asha’bellanar muttered, more to herself than to Marethari. She glanced off into the distance, though there was nothing to see there but the impenetrable darkness of the forest. “Wasn’t it supposed to be a joined journey? Perhaps a name change is due.” The old woman’s gaze returned to the elven mage. “If you’re so sure, I’ll see what can be done. Maybe fate needs to be pushed in this direction anyway. There’s someone living in that part of the mountains who might be better used elsewhere.” A look of deep consideration appeared on Flemeth’s face.

Not understanding her final words, Marethari still relayed her thanks. “Ma serannas, Asha’bellanar.”

Without a goodbye, the woman of many years faded away, taking the eerie lights and shadows with her.

* * *

Marethari followed the river downstream. She walked as fast as she could for the entire day. Just as the sun began to set below the horizon, she spotted the aravels’ red sails in the distance. The clan must’ve already stopped for the night. She quickened the pace, though her muscles screamed for mercy.

“Marethari!” a woman shouted in a shrill voice. It was Marethari’s cousin, Venora. The Halla Keeper was tending to the leader of the herd, but when she noticed the clan’s First, she dropped the hoof pick and ran up to meet her. The two women hugged tightly.

“What happened?” Marethari looked around the camp. More people greeted her as she passed by the aravels. A mix of relief and confusion emerged on their faces.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Venora sent her a smile that quickly dimmed. “Marethari, you were gone for _ three days _ .”

_ No _ , Marethari wanted to protest,  _ I left yesterday morning _ , but she bit her tongue instead. Near the altar of asha’bellanar, time could flow differently.

“We didn’t know what to do if you didn’t return,” the Halla Keeper continued. “Orian said you went to find something that could heal the Keeper, but you were supposed to come back sooner. I was so worried!” Venora sighed as she squeezed Marethari’s shoulder.

“How is Irelen?” Marethari glanced towards the aravel for the injured.

“He’s weak, very weak,” Venora said quietly. “Last night, we thought we lost him, his breathing became so slow. He’s been unconscious ever since.”

“I must see him,” the mage excused herself, slipping out from her cousin’s reach.

“Have you found it?” the woman inquired, her voice filled with hope.

Marethari looked over her shoulder. The sudden question made her heart skip a beat.

“The medicine,” Venora added.

The silence could be the answer, but Marethari still forced herself to say something, anything. “No, I didn’t.”

She then climbed onto the aravel and leaned over the Keeper to inspect his wounds, just as she did before leaving. The rest of the injured were on the clear path to recovery, so they didn’t need her attention.

By midnight, the Keeper’s breaths became so shallow that not even the lightest feather would be moved by them. Just before dawn, his heart stopped beating. His First removed the spells that were supposed to shorten the healing process. With the help of two hunters, she carried his body to the nearby aravel. The next day, the clan should find a proper place to lay them all to rest.

Though the night was almost over, Marethari only then went to sleep. She was so tired she thought she would remember little from her journey to the Fade, as it usually was. Instead, she found herself in a dream so vivid it could be mistaken for reality. In her nightly vision, she saw a drove of trees that were not bound to the ground by their roots. They marched through the forest with a sound of rustling leaves.

Their branches were dripping with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: There are conflicting accounts on how the Keeper who preceded Marethari had died. In Dragon Age: Origins, Ashalle says that Mahariel the Senior fell in love with an elven hunter from another clan. Sometime later, the pair was ambushed by a group of human bandits and city elves. The Keeper was killed and his wife was badly wounded, but she lived long enough to give birth. Afterwards, she disappeared, leaving her child with Ashalle. In "The World of Thedas", however, it’s written that the Sabrae clan camped in the Frostback Mountains in the year 8:82 Blessed. They had a good hunting season but once the winter arrived, the clan was attacked by Avvar warriors for unknown reasons. The Keeper was gravely wounded in the skirmish, and his Second, Sarel (Marethari’s husband), was killed. Marethari, First to the Keeper at the time, led her clan away from the Frostbacks and chose to seek out asha’bellanar. It’s unclear what exactly happened, but after Marethari returned, the Keeper succumbed to his wound, and the Avvar tribe was decimated by sylvans.
> 
> Additional note: I headcanon that the Avvar who were slaughtered by sylvans belonged to the hold led by Jarl Kell ap Morgan, a character from "The Calling". For reasons that are not made clear, Kell had left his clan. It’s implied that his kin is dead. As we can see in his dream landscape, he was a young man when he had to part with his loved ones. Sometime later, he joined the Grey Wardens. By the time of The Calling, he’s a seasoned veteran with an ability to track darkspawn. Since Flemeth claims that she has often nudged history (or pushed it if needed), I headcanon it was her influence that caused Kell ap Morgan to be deprived of his tribe.


End file.
